Polite Dance Song
by CurbItKirby
Summary: slight AU Crowley assigns Bobby a study buddy. Bobby/OC -oneshot-


**Author's note: A thank you to my beta: Wolfpack Pride, for her awesome skills. Also, if this is well received, I might carry on with it.**

"No!" Bobby snapped, shaking his head at the man from his place in the wheel chair. "I don't want anymore damn demons in my house!"

"I can assure you," Crowley straightened his tie absently. "That my associate is nothing but human. A damn fine example of one, too, if you ask me."

The hunter rolled his eyes. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Crowley defined as a damn fine human. Probably send him Jeffery Dahmer or John Gacy or the like. Wheeling out from behind his desk, he glared at the crossroads demon. "No. I don't want any more of your help, ya cause nothing but trouble."

The demon followed him into the kitchen. The hunter really was dense some times. "You know I realize that you don't enjoy accepting my assistance, but it's best you realize that I have nothing but good intentions when it comes to your little… endeavors."

"Oh yeah? And why is that?" Bobby spun his chair around to face him. His blue eyes gleamed with suspicion, and perhaps a hint of malice.

"Like I said, first the humans go, then the demons… not to mention, if the world does end, how will I spend my time?" Crowley smirked at him. His hands tucked in his perfectly pressed dress pants, he continued, "Humans are, after all, not only my source of income, but you are my source of entertainment."

Bobby all but growled at that. "Get out."

"I'll send her by this afternoon."

"You'll do no such-" The handicapped man let out a grunt as the demon disappeared. "Prick."

It was no more than two hours later when the doorbell rang. Bobby didn't move. He'd taken to barricading himself in his study. Why? Because he didn't want to deal with Crowley's little peace offering. It felt like a bribe, one that he was in no way going to accept. Besides, he wasn't sure he trusted Crowley's 'people sense.' Anyone could be ringing that doorbell. Slowly, Bobby rolled over to the window and took drew the curtain back just a shade.

No good. He couldn't see anything but a long, dark shadow that stretched out over the porch. The bell tolled again.

Brady sighed impatiently and checked her wristwatch. She really didn't have time for this. Crowley had pulled her away from a rather important business meeting to send her into the middle of Hicktown, USA and for what purpose? To study with some surly old recluse. Oh joy of joys. True, she was no spring chicken herself, just north of forty actually, but at least she had her priorities straight. She didn't want to stop the apocalypse. She wanted to profit off it. A manicured nail pressed the doorbell again.

Bobby let out a moan of disappointment as it rang through his ears. Couldn't the lackey take a hint? He wasn't interested in any of Crowley's help! He grit his teeth and rolled over to the front door. The bell rang again.

"Take it easy! I'm comin'!" He hollered. He hit the brakes without opening the door. "Now, I'm only gonna say this once, so listen up. I don't want your help! Beat it, twerp!"

Brady lifted her brow. Twerp? What was she, the local paperboy? "Understood, Mr. Singer." Her voice was loud, and the epitome of breezy confidence. "But my employer was quite insistent that I come. If you haven't the decency to, at the very least, reject me to my face, could you at least give me an excuse to give him?"

"Tell 'im I said he could take his help and shove it!" The voice called back to her.

She chuckled under her breath. "Fantastic." Brady pulled out her cell phone and stepped away from the door. "Hello, Crowley? I'm afraid I'm having a bit of trouble convincing Mr. Singer that my assistance is invaluable, so I think I'm just going to head back to Los Angelos."

The demon appeared next to her. A frown was heavy on his handsome face and he told her promptly, "You'll do no such thing. Bobby!" He crossed the porch and knocked briskly, "Answer this door."

"I ain't yer bitch, Crowley! And I said beat it!"

"Then you'll be paying for Ms. Haven's plane ticket home!"

The door flew out and Bobby rolled on to the porch. His appearance didn't surprise her-trucker hat, red flannel shirt, a little on the heavy side, and of course, his bitter, angry stare. The wheelchair was the only thing new to her mental image of him. He glared up her boss. "You brought 'er here, you get rid'a her!"

"I'll do no such thing." Crowley gently placed his hand on Brady's lower back. "Ms. Brady Haven, Mr. Robert Singer." His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement as he spoke, "I expect you to do your best to keep Mr. Singer happy for the next forty eight hours while I am out of town."

The woman all but sighed at him. Her eyes rolling skyward, she promised, "I'll do my best."

"That's my girl." He gave her back a pat. "Now, Bobby-"

"Are ya deaf, son, or just stupid!" The man said, his tone both insolent and annoyed. "I said I didn't want no tarted up demon broad comin' in my house!"

"Tarted up?" Brady repeated indignantly. She wasn't even wearing lipstick! A dash of mascara, maybe but… "_Tarted up_?"

"That's right, now get!" Bobby waved dismissively at her. She towered over him and he reckoned if he was out of his chair she'd of been about his height. His light eyes glared up at her dark ones. "Get off my property."

"Or what?" She asked, a fine eyebrow arching at him. "You'll run me over?"

Crowley frowned at her, though he was a tad amused himself. "Ms. Haven. _Tone_."

Resisting the _he started it_! That rose in her throat. She nodded and straightened her skirt. Bobby frowned. She stood out in the country like a sore thumb. She was in a posh, navy dress suit, the crème blouse underneath it frilly and expensive looking. Not a hair out of place on her head, not a wrinkle in sight. Bobby thought she looked like a bitch. And he was right.

"She ain't needed here. Send 'er back to L.A."

"No." Crowley, who was nothing if not a patient man, repeated. "She is staying here. She is going to help you find whatever it is you happen to be looking for and you are going to play nice." He adjusted his tie. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an important business meeting with the Disney corporation."

Brady scoffed as he disappeared. Her gaze landed on Bobby. "Are you going to invite me in, or do I have to push you down the steps?"

"One sec." He rolled back into the house.

She heard the faint _click_ of a lock and groaned. "_Really_, Mr. Singer?" Her head lulled back on her shoulders. "Un-freaking-believable." This wasn't out of the ordinary for her. Well, hunters were, but stubborn clients? No. Those were a daily dime a dozen. Tucking her skirt in, she moved and sat on the porch steps. A sigh escaped her lips as she once again checked her watch.

The man eyed her through the mail slot. What the hell was she playing at? Why wasn't she leaving? He frowned as she pulled out her cell phone. He opened the door again, quick to chastise her for ratting him out to her boss when she spoke.

"I'm not calling Crowley, Mr. Singer." She glanced over her shoulder. "This is a personal call… but it can wait if you're ready to begin."

Caught, Bobby ground his teeth a moment before speaking through them. "Fine! Get in here but let's get one thing straight, missy," He watched her stand. "Just 'cause I'm in this chair don't mean I'm gonna take any crap from you."

"Understood, Mr. Singer, but know this." She took a step closer to him. Brady leaned down so they were face to face. It was a struggle for him not to look down her blouse; this angle giving him a rather nice view of her generous cleavage. Her serious tone kept him in line. "Just because you're in that chair, doesn't mean I'm going to cut you any slack. I expect the same amount of professionalism I would receive from any of my partners."

"We are not partners." He snapped at her. "You work for me, little girl, and don't you forget it."

Brady saluted him. He found it childish. With a roll of his eyes, he went back in to the house, the woman a step behind. She closed the door, and when she turned back, she got a face full of holy water.

She flinched, than licked her lips, before opening her eyes. "Do you greet all your guests this way, or just the out of towners?"

"Just the ones that work for demons."

She pulled a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and wiped her face. "And here I thought we had settled the human argument. Any more tests you want to put me through, or are they going to come at random spates during the evening?"

"The latter." He told her with a smirk.

"Thought so." The sandy haired female past by him to enter his study. It was a cluttered, unorganized mess, but well stocked and obviously well used. She liked that. No point in having books that weren't read, she figured. Taking a random book from the stack, she tilted her head. "Biblical lore, huh? I take it your on the anti-apocalypse team."

Bobby arched a brow at her and rolled closer. "You're not?"

"We're all going die," She shrugged passively. Her fingers brushed the cover of the book before looking over to him. "One way or another. May as well be all at the same time."

"How poetic." The hunter scoffed and pulled up behind the desk. He took a stack of books and handed them to her. "Get started with these. Find anything to do with the Colt, tell me."

"Yes, sir." Her hazel eyes took on a serious edge and she sat down across from him. The books in her lap, she crossed her legs and opened the first one. Bobby glanced at her legs, long and lean, clad in black nylon stockings, and shook his head. Nothing but trouble.

Time moved slowly. It dragged by in silence. Soon they had each completed their books with little to no success.

"It just says that the Colt can kill demons," She told him. Two fingers rubbed her temple absently. "No detail whatsoever."

Bobby frowned. "Great. That's all I got too." He leaned back in his chair with crossed arms. For a moment they said nothing, frustrated with their lack of findings. Finally, the man broke the silence. "Come on. I need a drink."

The woman stood, adjusted her skirt, and followed him to the kitchen. She didn't offer to help him get the glasses down, she didn't offer to pour the whiskey for him. Instead, she just took what she was given with a thankful nod. He appreciated that. Sliding into the spot across from her, he gulped his booze back while she ran her finger over the rim of hers.

"So, Mr. Singer. How'd you end up on Crowley's good side?"

"How'd you end up workin' for 'im?" He shot back.

Brady smirked. "Touché." A manicured nail pointed at him. "We'll take the army approach. Don't ask, don't tell."

"Done."

She took a sip of her whiskey. The silence wore on a moment before she felt the gritty texture in her beverage. Her eyes sharpened and she looked over at Bobby from across the table. "You put salt in my drink, didn't you old man?"

He smirked at her. "Maybe. Why, 'sit burnin' ya?"

"No." she licked the roof of her mouth. "It's fairly disgusting, though." Clicking her tongue, she warned him, "There's a special circle of hell for men like you, you know that?"

"Hunters?"

"No, untrusting dicks who like to ruin a woman's whiskey."

Bobby scoffed at her. Absently, he fixed his hat. "I'm sure there is."

"Sure," The woman smirked at him, "It's right between people who covered for Nazis and those perverts who leave used condoms in bathroom stalls."

"Hm." Resisting the smile that twitched at his lips, he poured her a new drink. Twisting the cap back on the bottle, he asked, "Got much experience down there, do ya?"

She tiled her head, an eyebrow arched, "What happened to our arrangement?"

"Humor me."

"No. I haven't been down there, and God willing, I never will be."

Bobby eyed her skeptically. "You sold your soul to a demon. How do you figure you won't be dropped down there?"

The woman smirked. It was an almost seductive gesture, and the hunter found himself uncomfortable with it being directed at him. It widened as she realized that. Instead of speculating on it, however, just shrugged innocently. "God loves a sacrificial lamb, Mr. Singer."

He squinted at her but said nothing. Downing another shot, he swallowed thickly. She leaned back in her seat. Her hazel eyes taking him in with a curiosity that made him feel like a slide under a microscope. They remained locked in a stronghold for almost a minute before her cell phone rang. She didn't break his gaze as she flipped it open.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was soft, and seemed to have a dramatic effect on Brady. Her shoulders sagged, her gaze dropped his and she listened intently to the person on the line. "No. Not for two days." More chatter. "I'm sorry. I'll see you then." She looked away from the man across from her, a slight flush on her cheeks. "Love you too."

The hunter snickered. "Aw." He cooed as she slid the phone back in her pocket. "Ain't that cute…"

With a sigh, the woman stood. "Come on. Let's get back to work."

Bobby chuckled and rolled over to her. "Did I hit a nerve, there, kiddo?"

"First of all, stop call me kiddo. I'm forty two years old, Mr. Singer, and while I may not be as…seasoned, as you, I am in no way a kid." A hand on her hip, she continued with her eyes baring down at him. "Second, yes, you did. Now let it go before I park your ass on the porch and leave you there."

The man glared up at her. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" She asked.

Turns out she would. Almost half an hour later, Bobby found himself on the porch after calling her twerp-for _the third time_ in _under twenty minutes!_

"Damn it, Haven, let me in!" His fist pounded against the door.

Brady leaned casually against the door. She checked her nails as she spoke. "Are you going to co-operate?"

"Damn it, woman! Get'a'hold'a yerself! Open this door this instant!" He bellowed, his voice echoing through the junkyard. "I ain't got time for these games!"

"It's not like we were getting anything done, anyway, Mr. Singer."

Her rational, calm tone pissed him off something fierce. He punched the door in a fit of rage. Bad idea. He let out a grunt as his knuckles scrapped the wood.

The sudden silence confused the woman, and she resisted the urge to open the door. Instead, she glanced through the peephole. The man was holding his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally. The splatter of red that graced his knuckles earned him an unseen eye roll. She opened the door with unsympathetic eyes and beckoned him silently back into his house.

"You got some balls, you know that!" He growled at her, the sting in his hand going on the back burner as he followed her into the kitchen. "Never have I ever-"

"Cram it, old timer."

"I ain't old!"

"Well I ain't young!"

"You spend enough time on yer cell phone to be a damn teenager!"

Brady scoffed at him and pulled a medical kit off the wall. "Well, excuse me for not being a hermit!" She smirked at him, "I'd say sit down, but I guess that'd be redundant."

"You know, I'm getting a little sick of your attitude, missy."

"Well, I'm getting a little sick of being here."

Bobby pointed behind her, grinning sarcastically, "There's the door, princess! Don't let it hit you on the ass on the way out!"

Her hazel eyes narrowed at him. "If I could, I would. But Crowley says I have to stay, so I have to stay."

"Obedient little bitch, ain't ya?"

Bobby let out a shout as the medical box, made of thin steel, bounced off his shoulder with a surprising amount of force. "Jesus Christ, lady, what is _wrong_ with you?"

A bright red blush crossed her pale features. Not out of guilt, but out of frustration. How could she have missed his head? He was less than six feet away and she missed!

The man stared at her. "You gonna answer me, damn it, or are ya gonna stand there like an idjit?"

"Why should I?" She kept her voice light as she picked up the box. "You've been nothing short of a bastard to me since I arrived. The time of civility is over."

Brady tossed the kit in his lap and left him there. Her vision cloud with red, she snatched a book off his desk and fell into her seat. _The audacity of that man_. She let out a low grunt of rage before heard the telltale squeak of Bobby's wheelchair approaching.

"So, what now you're just gonna pout all night cause I hurt your feelings?"

She ignored him.

"Damn it, Haven, quit being such a baby." He rolled in front of her. "You locked me outta my own damn house, I called you a bitch, I think we're even."

Brady ground her teeth. Her light eyes rose to his blue ones. "We should be reading, Mr. Singer."

The man scoffed. "Don't be such a…"

"Twerp?" She offered pointedly. "Look here, Mr. Singer, I came in here with nothing short of respect for you. But you've proved to be nothing short of a total prick."

"It's my house." He argued, "I'll act however I want."

"Which is like a total prick." Brady reasoned with a stiff smile. "Look. Can we just get back to work?"

He nodded and picked up a book. They sat in silence a moment before her cell phone rang, again. "Jesus Christ." Bobby rolled his eyes, "You got one needy fella there."

The woman scoffed at him and left the room. She pressed the phone to her ear and spoke quietly. "Look, I know you're mad but I can't come home just yet, okay?"

"But why not? I hate being here alone." The teenager whined over the line, "Can I at least invite Gina over?"

"Fine, but just Gina."

The girl sighed dramatically, but agreed. "Fine."

"There's money for food on the counter if you guys want to order in or catch a movie, 'kay?"

"Kay. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye." Brady turned back around to find Bobby eying her. "Last one, I swear."

He shrugged, a pensive look on his features. "Take all the time you need."

"What changed your tune?"

"It's your kid, ain't it?"

Brady put her phone away. "It ain't, actually. She's my niece."

"Why she callin' you?" He asked, tilting his head to look up at her.

"I'm her legal guardian."

"How'd you swing that?"

The woman scoffed at him. "That's really none of your business, Mr. Singer. Now are we going to gossip or are we going to-"

"We're going to gossip." The hunter smirked. "Come on. You look like you could use a drink."

"Anyone ever tell you that you may have bipolar disorder?" She asked, "Maybe a touch of alchoalism?"

"Anyone ever tell you that you catch more flies with honey?"

A smirk trailed over her lips as she followed him to the kitchen. "Trust me, Mr. Singer, I have no interest in catching flies." She quirked a brow as he handed her back her glass. "No salt?"

"Nope."

"Holy water?"

"Nope." He shook his head. When she continued to eye him warily, he snapped, "It's fine, I swear!"

A smile, the first genuine one of the day, crossed her face. "Good." Her eyes dropped to his hand. The knuckles were bloody. With a quirked brow, she asked, "How's the hand?"

"I've had worse."

"Hm." Brady took a sip of her whiskey. When she noticed he was watching her closely again, she all but slammed her glass down, "Damn it, Singer, you did not-"

He smirked. "I didn't do anything, Miss Haven. You're bein' paranoid."

"Dick." She muttered, knocking the shot back in a very unladylike manner. The hunter cocked a brow, but didn't comment on it. Neither did she. Rather than start another fight, she leaned back and crossed her legs, "So. How long have you been researching the Colt?"

"Too damn long." Bobby groaned. He poured her another shot. "How long've you been working for Crowley?"

"Too damn long," She told him with yet another smirk. This one was a tad more amicable. Her finger danced on the rim of her glass. "So." She glanced around the kitchen. "Nice place you got here. How'd an old recluse like you ever afford it?"

"It was a wedding gift."

Brady's eyes widened slightly. She hadn't noticed him wearing a wedding ring, and this place was in desperate need of a feminine touch. "Oh?"

"My late wife's grandparents left it to us when they died." He told her calmly. He enjoyed watching her squirm. "What?"

Instead of taking the bait and pitying him, she took a different approach. "Nothing I just didn't peg you as the married type, Mr. Singer."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shot him a knowing look. "You're in a trucker hat."

"So? What's wrong with it?"

The woman snickered and took a sip of her whiskey. "Nothing. I suppose. It suits you…"

Bobby sighed at her. "Anyone ever tell you that talkin' to you is like pullin' teeth?"

"On several occasions, actually."

"So." He poured them both another shot. "Tell me 'bout this niece'a yours. She a good kid?"

A shrug. "She's alright for an eighteen year old I guess."

"Hm. Tough age."

Brady chuckled. "You have no idea." She tapped her nails on the table. "What about you, any family from that wife of yours?"

"Nah. Got a couple boys I look after now and then but, none'a my own."

"The Winchesters."

The man nodded. "Yep. Couple'a Class A Idjits if I ever met any."

This laugh was considerably more genuine then the last. Her smile was wider than it had been as well. Bobby figured it had something to do with the booze. She leaned back in her seat with a sigh as she glanced around the kitchen. The sun had set little under an hour ago and the only light came from a dim bulb that hung above them.

"Kinda spooky out here in the boondocks, ain't it?"

"Aw, Little Miss L.A not liking the country air?"

"I didn't say that." A faint flush lined her cheeks. "It's just… very quiet and very dark."

Bobby snickered at her expense. "Well, if ya get scared you can crawl in bed with me."

"A couple more of these," She raised her empty glass, "and, I may take you up on that, Mr. Singer."

The hunter smirked. "Tease."

"Grouch." Brady countered with a raised brow. Her fingers continued to tap idly.

"Ouch." He put a hand over his heart. "That hurt."

The woman licked her lips and squinted at him. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Is it about the chair?"

She pushed her sandy hair back over her shoulder. "No."

"Then go ahead."

"How'd you end up babysitting the Winchesters?"

He frowned. "I was friends with their daddy."

Brady nodded. "Ah."

"How'd you end up with Crowley?"

"I needed a favor."

"Hm." The man tilted his head. "Got any embarrassing stories I could throw in his face?"

"'Fraid not. Man's pretty suave…It's why we get along so well." She winked at him. "Birds of a feather and all."

"Is that right?" Bobby watched her stand with a hint of amusement on his lips. She didn't stagger like he expected, in fact she was rather graceful for a woman on her third helping of whiskey, but he was surprised when she ended up in his lap.

His blue eyes shot up to her hazel ones as she smirked down at him. With a coy smirk, she took off his hat and placed it on her own head. "I may not be a demon, Mr. Singer, but I am very good at making deals."

"Is that right?" He asked, his voice steadier than he thought it would be as her lips brushed his ear. His hand rested on her knee, the barely clothed skin warm beneath his hand as her skirt rode up slightly. With a chuckle, he carried on, "What is it you want to offer me?"

"That, seeing as how the world is going to end… we're both alone… and have two days to ourselves… we spend it doing something much more…" He felt her lips curve in a smile, as she kept speaking in a low, soft tone. "Fulfilling, than research."

Brady pulled back just far enough to take in his expression. He seemed a bit stunned, but not entirely opposed to the idea. He had a brow cocked, his hair slightly mussed, and an almost knowing smile on his face.

"Just how drunk are you, young lady?"

She kissed him, slowly and deeply -a lover's kiss. Not the dutiful, dainty kiss of a virgin, and not the loving, warm one of a wife. Her hands moved up to cup his scruffy cheeks and his around wound around her waist to hold her in place. One hand tangled in her long hair, he gave her the answer she was looking for as the hat tumbled to the floor.


End file.
